


stay by your side (you found me)

by sarcoline_sails



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Feelings, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, but like not really... cause yknow, emo hourz amiright, many feelings, possibly?!, sorry these tags make zero sense pls gimme a chance, sort of like pre-slash?, this is like the very end of season two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:07:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29946990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcoline_sails/pseuds/sarcoline_sails
Summary: So many words crowd on the tip of his tongue, words likethank you, I’m sorry, I love you,all the phrases that have gathered dust after years of disuse.-Sherlock watches John try to cope with his death.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 15





	stay by your side (you found me)

**Author's Note:**

> ok so i have to preface this by saying i am new to the fandom. like, newborn-baby new. maybe even zygote level new. i’ve only just finished season two and i have so many feelings and so OBVIOUSLY i had to do this... 💕
> 
> lo siento if there’re some inaccuracies/out-of-character-ness, but i hope you enjoyyy (thanks for clicking on here ❤️)

It’s an interesting position he’s put himself in. Probably the _most_ interesting thus far, if only because he’s being forced to watch his friend—his _everything_ , really—mourn over his fraudulent death.

He knows John doesn’t believe it, him being a fraud. He knows from the conviction in his voice during their rooftop phone call, how he pleaded _no, Sherlock_ with disbelief written all over his face. He knows from the desperation in his eyes as he sought out his bleeding body on the pavement, the break in his voice and the salt on his cheeks. He knows from the way John finally showed up on his therapist’s doorstep ( _how_ he knows: John’s breathing is remarkably steady, probably from an anxiety relieving technique that resurfaced in his mind after attending therapy for the first time in a while).

And now, he knows from the dip in his shoulders and the fists he makes in his pockets. Grasping onto hope, he realizes. Hope that Sherlock Holmes isn’t really dead, hope that this nightmare is something he can wake up from.

Mrs. Hudson has already taken her leave. It took a great deal of self restraint to keep himself from approaching her, just to show her that he’s still breathing and her tears don’t need to be wasted on him.

But this, watching John struggle to keep his composure before a gravestone with his name etched on it in gold, is another trial entirely.

He watches John take a deep breath, listens carefully as he chokes out the words that have been weighing so heavily on his mind. 

“…there were times I didn’t even think you were _human_ , but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and the most human… human being that I’ve ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so… there.”

He swallows the bile in his throat. He isn’t a good man, doesn’t even come close to being the best. He’s made too many mistakes, cut too many ties, pulled the smart arse card one too many times. And yet, he can’t detect a single drop of insincerity in John's words. John really believes it. Believes in _him._

A soft noise escapes him, and John looks away to steady himself before reaching out and touching the elegant headstone. He can feel the phantom weight of John’s hand on his shoulder, an anchor of warmth and love.

“I was _so_ alone. I owe you so much.”

He’s wrong, of course. John owes him nothing. In fact, he supposes _he_ is the one indebted to _John_. Before the doctor had come into his life, he had no idea what it meant to truly live. He’d never had anyone willing to put up with his insufferability, never had an escape from the abysmal loneliness that his life had become. Before John, he was just another fish in the sea, just another aimless soul seeking to prove himself superior when in reality, he was no better than the rest of them. 

He thinks back to Molly’s words: “You look sad when you think he can’t see you.” She’s partially correct in her deduction. He would never want John to see the full extent of his emotions. They’re something even _he_ doesn’t understand, let alone somebody else—even if that someone else is John Watson, the closest thing he’s ever had to a better half. 

What she’s wrong about is this: he might look sad when John isn’t watching, but that’s because he truly _isn’t_ when John’s around. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that he and John complement each other in more ways than one: the lonely detective in need of a friend and the retired war doctor in search of an adventure. But even more than that, they _understand_ each other. John might not know all the inner workings of his head, but he knows when he needs a little push, knows the difference between his target practice and impromptu violin concerts and what they all mean in regards to his thought process.

It’s something he isn’t used to, being understood. It’s something he never wants to lose.

John’s voice shakes him out of his head. “No, please, there’s just one more thing, mate, one more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me.”

_Miracle_. He’s found that he will do anything in his power for John, even stage his own suicide. What will he ask for?

“Don’t be…” John’s voice finally breaks, his facade cracking in a beautiful display of vulnerability. “…dead. Would you… just for me, just stop it.” He gestures to the ground, face scrunching to a point. “ _Stop this_.”

He’s never been one for physical affection—affection in general, if he’s being honest—and yet he wants nothing more in this world than to wrap John up in his arms and protect him from this cruel world. From _himself_. John rarely lets himself get to this point, never lets that soft, expressive part of his heart see the light of day.

But here he is, shaking like a leaf and fruitlessly trying to bite back his cries, never one to make a scene.

His fingers itch to touch, clenching around nothing but the silky lining of his coat. So many words crowd on the tip of his tongue, words like _thank you_ , _I’m sorry_ , _I love you_ , all the phrases that have gathered dust after years of disuse—but here’s this man, John Watson, making him want to clear up the mess of his mind and make room in his heart for the first time in his dismal life.

John wipes his own tears. He mimics the motions, gently gliding his thumb over his index finger within his coat pocket. He watches John walk away, swallows down the contagious tears with the reminder that he isn’t really dead, that John will see him soon enough and hopefully berate him for his idiocy. Possibly even subject him to an embrace that he can’t escape from, not that he would ever want to.

He takes a deep breath and turns away from the graveyard. There’s work to be done.

**Author's Note:**

> title from finneas’ “die alone” cause i love him


End file.
